


Invitation

by Virodeil



Series: Caught Is Caught Is Cuddled [5]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: (implied) – Freeform, Action/Adventure, Additional Warnings Apply, Additional Warnings in Author’s Note, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Thor Movies, Alternate Universe - what if, Angst/Drama, Cultural Differences, Cultural Exploration, Cultural Reference, Culture Clashes, Culture Shock, Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Needs A Hug, Exploration, Family Feels, Family History, Family Issues, Family Reunions, Family Secrets, Fictional Religion & Theology, Fictional language, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Internalised Racism, Intersex Jotunn (Marvel), Jotnar Politics, Jotunn Biology (Marvel), Jotunn Culture, Jotunn | Frost Giant, Jötunheimr | Jotunheim, Language Barrier, Laufey (Marvel) Has Issues, Laufey (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Letters, Loki (Marvel) Has Issues, Loki Does What He Wants, Loki Needs a Hug, Loki-centric, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Post-Infancy Breastfeeding, Other, POV First Person, POV Loki (Marvel), Pre-Thor (2011), Present Tense, Prompt Fic, Secret Identity, Sharing a Bed, Slow To Update, Stereotypes, Stream of Consciousness, Unexpected Family Relations, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Work In Progress, a lot of headcanons, exercises in self-loathing, family baggage, internalised sexism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-03-20 01:13:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18982168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virodeil/pseuds/Virodeil
Summary: A young, curious, intrepid scholar, Loki Odinson seeks to know more, more, and more, especially about the knowledge that is forbidden in Asgard. And there is no knowledge that is currently more forbidden than anything about Jötunheim and the red-eyed, blue-skinned, black-clawed giant monsters that inhabit it. So he asks round, including to the monsters themselves.Well, he should have been introduced to the adage: “Be careful what you wish for. You might just get it.”(Set a few days before Odin was supposed to declare Thor’s upcoming coronation.)





	1. The Book

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lov_pb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lov_pb/gifts).



> 1. This story is a gift for _Lov_pb_ , one of my most faithful Marvel-fic reviewers, with the topic as requested by the said reviewer. ☺ Thank you for all your support!  
> 2. The timing of the declaration for Thor’s coronation is inspired by _SofiaDragon_ ’s timeline in her series, _Another Turn of the Wheel_ , namely a century before the events in _Thor 1_. The meaning of the lines on the jötnar’s body is also inspired by her series.  
> 3. There is a biological and cultural difference in age for humans, jötnar and æsir, in my universe. In this fic, Loki is 1192 years old, about 14 or 15 years in modern human standard for an ás’, biologically, but about 8 (nearly 9, maybe, or half-way there) in the same standard for a jötun.  
> 4. In Rey-verse, places like Asgard, Jötunheim, Vanaheim, Midgard etc are planets, not countries occupying specific plots of land. They are scattered in 9 different galaxies (called “realms,” hence the Nine Realms) bearing their respective names, but interconnected tightly nonetheless through the pathways that make up Ygdrasil. It is why sometimes I will say e.g. “ _in_ Asgard” while in another time I will say “ _on_ Asgard.” The former signifies the country or realm/galaxy, while the latter signifies the planet where the country lies.  
> 5.> This fic is _supposed_ to be short, despite the length and breadth of the tags. But who knows…. For certain, please check the story tags regularly for updated tags – tossed out or plugged in. Chapter tags will be given when applicable, outside of the story tags.

**The Children of Ýmir: A Compendium  
By Voðen Bestla-Childe**

 

Carefully, oh so carefully, I pry the thick, huge, heavy-looking tome out of its nook on the highly warded shelf. It is nestled among a score and more of other tightly restricted manuscripts. However, those other topics do not interest – and appall – me as much as this one does.

 

Then again, throughout the centuries, I have managed to sneak a read on those other wells of knowledge, and yet not this one. The temptation of a new, rare type of knowledge compells me onward, even as confusion of who the author is and revulsion of what the knowledge pertains to makes me act slower than I ought to.

 

The slowness and distraction were always my bane in past attempts, when it came to sneaking this tome off the restricted section of Father’s private library. But today Father is busy with his advisors and lords and generals, even more than the usual; too busy to catch me trying to spirit this tome away, hopefully. I do not know why I keep doing this, risking an ever-more-serious, ever-more-inventive punishment from Father each time….

 

Well, at least, this day I apparently need not risk such punishment.


	2. The Idea

The information packed inside my pilfered tome has been… well… _informative_. Indirectly, it touts the “Children of Ýmir” – the _frost giants_ – as _people_ , instead of the monstrous, slavering beasts that I have heard of thus far. I have not managed to read much, for various reasons, but from what I have read in these three days….

 

I purse my lips, as I find _yet again_ that my eyes have strayed from the tome laid open on my lap to the side-table. There, I have accumulated piles of notes, from _just_ the handful of sections that I have read. – Notes that give me more questions instead of answers. Notes that would have meant the beginning of a serious project for any other topic in this universe but _frost giants_. Notes that have been hounding me with the start of quite an extremely foolish, insane, bold, suicidal, horrible idea:

 

I am going to go to Jötunheim, _merely_ to complete my notes of the jötnar, and in the process proving or disproving the notion that they are _civilised people_.

 

Well, everyone is always complaining about my lack of “warrior traits,” no? It may be time to prove them all wrong, in my own way. And even if I got killed because of this, people here would not mourn me, anyhow, save for my family – or rather, specifically, _my mother_.

 

Hmm. Time to _really_ take notes in earnest, then.


	3. The Familial Petition

“Child… are you sure…?” Mother is anxious. With reason, and I do agree with the reason, myself. But my heart is set, and my curiosity has been well ignited by now, trumping all concerns.

 

I nod as firmly as I can to her. – Yes, I wish to go to _Jötunheim_ , for my own sake of _curiosity_ about the _whole_ Nine Realms and beyond.

 

A flimsy proposal, I know. It’s flimsy even to my own ears. But I cannot tell them – tell _Father_ – that I have snuck a rather thorough read on one of Father’s forbidden tomes.

 

And Father is looking at me thoughtfully, even as Thor joins in the protestation and insists that he accompany me in my quest, should I persist to embark on it. I stare back at him – Father, that is, not the ranting Thor – and refrain from raising an eyebrow in challenge. I do need his permission, and being considered insolent to him will not get me that permission. Unless… well… there is indeed another way… hmm.

 

Regardless, this new look of his does merit some digging. It is… odd, to sum it all in one definable word. Father is unreadable in most times, almost flat, and I have long made it a challenge and a game to define his moods and thoughts from the few signs he exudes; but this one…. There is _remembrance_ lurking deep in his gaze, tinged with pain and sorrow and even _longing_ , and I cannot fathom _why_ – the _longing_ , that is.

 

The time to wheedle the reason from him is _not_ now, though. Not when Thor is mentally and verbally – almost physically, _too_ – taking all the space at the family dining table, declaiming passionately about the monstrous barbarism and violence of the jötnar. Not when a permission _from the King_ for this quest of mine would _hopefully_ mean an easier, _safer_ time for me in the land of the monsters, either.

 

I do not even get any chance yet to put a word in edgewise to replead my case, as it is! The situation will just deteriorate – _fast_ – if I shut Thor up now, I know that well, but… but… but…!


	4. The… Escape?

**Father, Mother and Thor,**   
**My apologies for leaving so suddenly and without prior notification. Wanderlust seized me, and I chose to heed it. I truly wish to update our knowledge about the herb lore from all over the Nine Realms, and maybe outside of it. Head Healer Eir has been wishing to update the usability of the healing stone, and I wish to gift her this knowledge for her upcoming name-day celebration.**   
**I have temporarily assigned the execution of my duties to a few trusted assistants and postponed others until I return. I may be out of contact for a while, since some of the places that I am going to visit are secluded or even secretive, but please rest your minds that I shall take all due caution and safety, especially in Jötunheim.**   
**Until I return, warmest regards from your son and brother,**   
**Loki Odinson**

 

And _that_ is the shield that I have fashioned to save myself from at least most of the future remonstrations and punishments dealt out by my family.

 

I hope so, in any case.

 

I hope, as well, that poor, kind Head Healer Eir will _not_ bear the brunt of my family’s ire.

 

All the same, the note is resting on the middle of the family breakfast table, now, and I am already far away from home.

 

Far, far away.

 

In fact, I am presently on the planet of Midgard, doing what I was _supposed_ to do, for the sake of both genuine curiosity and validation of my claim in the note.

 

Specifically, I am now crouched on a sheltered spot – a cave-like overhang – somewhere on Midgard’s southern pole, ostensibly observing, cataloguing and gathering the soft greenish purple moss that thickly carpets this place.

 

It _is_ supposed to be a genuine act. However, a damp wind is blowing from the sea, now, and snow is falling gently, and everything reminds me of… something. Something that triggers a phantom ache of hunger in my stomach and loss in my chest.

 

This situation, this environment, is _familiar_ , for some reason. But _how_? This place is colder than the coldest part on Asgard! And, to my knowledge, I was never brought anywhere else – not even to vanaheim – when I was too little for proper recollection, which must have triggered this déjà vu moment.

 

Well, I would rather not dwell on the conclusion I have just come to, which has sent me into this stupour in the first place.

 

Because, why in the universe would my parents have brought sickly little me to _Jötunheim_?


	5. The Hounding Disorientation

A day of questing – _and questioning myself_ – has turned into a week, a month, a year, a tenth of a century…. Wherever I go, whatever I do, I cannot escape my morbid curiosity about Jötunheim, and that is the single most frustrating, upsetting, perplexing feeling that I can really live without.

 

Today is no different.

 

I meant to just snoop round the entry points to the acurst planet, mapping out my escape routes in advance from as many angles as I could cover.

 

Well, I managed to visit only _three_ of them before my curiosity got the better of me.

 

And here I am, _on Jötunheim_ , armed with only three points of egress, garbed in only moderately thick clothes, but feeling as if I were _home_ in a nicely _cool_ temperature.

 

And _even worse_ , the landscape that I can see till the horizon shows a more beautiful sight – or at least more varied – than the southern end of Midgard. Rolling, snow-layered hills, _running_ streams, squat bushes with lush, fat purplish green little leaves, a sharp white snout peeking out from amidst a particularly thick clump of bushes….

 

I look round to all directions, seeing but still unable to take in anything, let alone putting everything into a coherent picture.

 

I don’t think I erred in navigating the hidden paths, or in determining where I would end up – where I _am_ right now. But… but… but….


	6. The Surreal Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The result of your enthusiastic encouragements, folks. You can congratulate yourselves for this big (for this story) chapter. ☺ I was stumped half-way through, for a very long time, but then you put the muse into overfeeding frenzy….  
> And, without further ado, enjoy!  
> Rey

_Eyes_ are on me: invisible, ever-moving, flowing in and out of my mental perception as if they do not care that I am here, that I can perceive them, that I may be quite hostile.

 

The unseen attention is disconcerting. The dismissive rejection is _hurtful_.

 

Apparently, even a race of monsters dismisses me as not a threat, _inconsequential_.

 

I have trekked for quite some time along the snow-layered, potholed, uneven path running beside the field of bushes. Even now, the soft, bluish white light bathing everything all round is turning warmer, more creamy, although the temperature is paradoxically dropping to an almost uncomfortable level. Well, the day is about to change into night, apparently.

 

If “day” is what _civilised people_ usually call “night,” that is. But I guess, in this case, the frost giants have no say in the matter. The sun that shines on this planet is _supposed_ to be bad – almost toxic – to them, if they do not protect themselves against it in some way. The reflection of sunlight on snow is also _supposed_ to be blinding to their sensitive eyes.

 

At least, that is what “ _The Children of Ýmir: A Compendium_ says.

 

The _huge, thick book_ about this very race of monsters that I nicked from _and have not returned_ to Father’s highly restricted bookshelf. It is even still in my possession, right now, tucked away in my pocket dimension. Father will be doubly angry with me for this excursion because of that… maybe… probably….

 

And I will be a truly sorry trespasser if I do not get to meet any of the frost giants – _in a more-or-less civilised manner_ – within the next candlemark, at that. Because I have not forgotten _either_ that the more aggressive predators in this wasteland usually roam near where the vegetation is most abundant.

 

I need to _call out to them_ , then, and ask for a temporary shelter with any of them, however distasteful and daunting the prospect is.

 

Maybe, the presence of the book will also help?

 

So, without further ado, without breaking my stride, and with trepidation saturating every pinprick of my body, I weave additional defensive wards round myself and cloak them to prevent detection. And then I fish the book that started it all from my pocket dimension and wave it around high over my head. “Greetings!” I declare at the same time in my loudest banquet-hall voice. “I’m a scholar! I’m a healer as well! I come in peace! I mean you no harm! Might I seek shelter with you for the night?”

 

I feel so, so, so foolish.

 

I feel even more foolish as the candlemark melts by, alongside every thump of my increasingly disconsolate step.

 

Nobody is answering my call. The passing attention that has brushed by me has vanished _entirely_ into the thin, cold air, in fact.

 

What am I doing wrong?

 

“Hello?” I wave the huge, thick book again, making sure that the silvery embossed title on its blue cover is visible, reflected by the emerging sunlight. Bör’s beard – it is a _book_ , not a _weapon_! Are the jötnar so cowardly that they fear _a book_?

 

“Please! I–.”

 

My next call dies a strangled death in my throat, and my half-hearted strides halt just as abruptly.

 

Somebody is suddenly standing before me, only a few paces away. They were _completely unseen_ just a moment ago, and they do _not_ look like a jötun – the jötun that is described and illustrated in the book that is now tucked against my chest, at least. They are just about a head taller than I am, with skin a glowing white under the sunlight, eyes the colour of some Midgardian pale purple-blue-pink flower, and shoulder-length bushy hair as bright blue as the sky on that planet at noon. They are also wearing some kind of footware – an orange pair of minimalistic sandals, in fact – and proper clothing, if indecently cut: a bold-yellow baggy tunic without sleeves and with bright-red patterns on it, and a pair of baggy, bright-pink trousers with piping shawn on mid-thigh.

 

But somehow, I would prefer a huge, two-legged beast with blue skin, silvery marks, black claws and red glowing eyes to… this… _eyesore_.

 

And, as if they could read my mind despite my tight mental shields, they raise one apple-green eyebrow, spread their arms wide and drawl in perfect Allspeak, “See anything you do not like, stranger?”

 

Only then I realise that I have been gaping like a fool. ` _Damn._ `

 

“I – what – no! – I mean…,” I splutter, blushing, worse when the other eyebrow – this one pale brown – joins its apple-green compatriot high up on the eyesore’s fringed brow.

 

“You mean, you would like to invade our homes single-handedly, Asgardian style, trusting to the power of a book and a fortress’ worth of defensive Workings?”

 

My eyes widen exponentially. So that is why…. But…. So…?

 

“N-no, that is never my intention. I apologise for any mistakenly… I mean, hostile-seeming… action… or something else… that you may have derived from… well, all of this.” I wave helplessly at my own self with my free hand. I am acutely aware that I am but one Asgardian in a land – a _planet_ – hostile to Asgardians. My entry point has been left behind so far away by now, as well, and there is no nearby point of egress that I can use. But to try to sweet-talk my way out of this predicament would see me even weaker than I am, and _that_ I cannot afford.

 

Oh, damn. I am _trapped_ here. ` _Talk fast, Loki. This eyesore is far **less** frightening than your father in a fit of temper._`

 

But my mouth opens and closes without any sound coming out, and after a while the offended eyesore-who-does-not-look-like-a-jötun huffs out a breath, clearly irritated and impatient.

 

They take pity on me, though, thankfully, although my pride is well bruised by now because of this last blow.

 

“Come, you silly child,” they snap, one hand now beckoning me to them. “Wait until I tell your mother about this stunt of yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope the ride has been enjoyable. ☺  
> Comments, suggestions, critiques and discussions would be highly appreciated!


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